


the space between

by meerminne



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Boys In Love, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-21
Updated: 2016-04-21
Packaged: 2018-06-03 16:15:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6617443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meerminne/pseuds/meerminne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It isn’t until the third time when he has Marner’s breath hot and wet against his cheek, hotel duvet scratchy under their tumbling bodies - that. Well. He maybe realizes this is a lot more about <i>fucking</i> Marner than <i>fucking up</i> Marner.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the space between

**Author's Note:**

  * For [awkwardheart](https://archiveofourown.org/users/awkwardheart/gifts).



> hey awkwardheart!!! it's not quite mitch/dylan keep having hella romantic sex instead of hatesex. i had fun writing it and hope you enjoy <3

i.

He doesn’t mean to fuck Marner.

 

ii.

The first or second time.

He’d just like to have that on record, please.

 

iii.

It isn’t until the third time when he has Marner’s breath hot and wet against his cheek, hotel duvet scratchy under their tumbling bodies - that. Well. He maybe realizes this is a lot more about _fucking_ Marner than _fucking up_ Marner.

Marns bites at the hinge of Dylan’s jaw when he doesn’t respond to the whining noise Marns makes high in his throat, needy and satisfying to hear. He merely has to push a thigh between Marns’ legs and he’s a pouting mess, dick hard in his gym shorts. Sometimes he doesn’t even have to touch him. He’ll palm his own dick in his jeans, push his thumb down to press his dick into the curve of his fingers. Mitch whines then, too.

Now he tilts his face up for a kiss. So demanding all the while shoving his shorts down his thighs.

Mitch Marner is easy for him, is what he’s getting at.

“Shut up,” Dylan leans down to whisper in his ear.

Marns, because he is insufferable and also an asshole, whines louder and tugs where his teeth are embedded in Dylan’s skin. Dylan has to stifle the impulse to jerk away, instead leaning into the sting and stifling a grin when Marns lets go.

Like a huffy cat’s claws.

He lets himself smile into the kiss, ignoring how good Marns feels wrapped up in him, half undressed and stretching his arms over Dylan’s sheets. How happy it makes him that he can smell Marns’ stupid apple shampoo on his pillow hours after he leaves. How achingly empty he feels when he curls his body around the pillow to breathe in the scent. How grumpy he gets when he has the self actualization to realize he _misses_ Marns when he’s gone.

It doesn’t stop him from pushing his face into the crook of Marns’ neck and breathing in clean skin and sugar sweet apples.

 

iv.

The pool is a little chilly for early June so they lay out in the sun instead. Foregoing the creaky lounge chairs that leave thick banded red marks over his skin, Mitch sits next to the Adirondack chair Dylan claimed and pulls at Dylan’s leg hair when he deems necessary.

Talk is lazy and they keep floating back to topics they’ve worn out but are neutral ground, about Connor and Toronto and Arizona.

“You’ll look good in a Leafs jersey,” Dylan allows. “If they can find one that will fit you.”

Mitch keeps running his index finger around the tan line on Dylan’s ankle. Chirps him for how pale his feet are, milk white and blue veined. Dylan flexes his toes at Mitch.

“Do you have a foot fetish you aren’t telling me about?” gets him a sharp pinch over the tendon to his big toe.

“No, I just -” Mitch taps his fingers over the base of his toes. “I don’t usually get to see them.”

They don’t do anything but kiss that day, when Dylan gets sweaty and overheated enough to say fuck it and jumps in the pool. Mitch grumbles and splashes in after him. Corners him back against the cool blue tiles. Mitch’s lips taste like chlorine and sunscreen and the tang of strawberry lemonade.

 

v.

He saves Mitch in his phone under “Snipe [hockey stick emoji]” and thinks he’s being clever.

“You got a text message.”

Until Connor borrows his phone when he leaves his own out in the car, ducking into Dylan’s room to grab gym clothes.

“Who’s Snipe?”

“ _Sniiiipe_ ,” Dylan automatically responds. Freezes up, forces his shoulders down from around his ears. Turns to where Connor’s thumbing through his phone. He tackles Connor to the bed, not caring that his phone goes flying off the side and then there’s a loud, distinct noise of an iPhone shattering into a thousand pieces.

“Don’t. Say. _Anything_.” He hopes Connor didn’t see the stupid selfie of them in snapbacks he’d set as his home screen.

He has to send Mitch a message over facebook, a quick “davo broke my phone sorry xo” before Connor drags him to the gym. Connor will roll his eyes but make a detour later to get Dylan a replacement.

 

vi.

Dylan clutched weakly at Mitch’s fingers the first time Mitch sucked his dick. They were in a dimly lit janitor’s closet at the Erie Insurance Arena. Mitch batted his hands away, freeing his own to wrap around the base of Dylan’s cock. The light flickered overhead as Dylan ran his hands through Mitch’s hair, over the shell of Mitch’s ears.

He was Marner, then.

He was Marns when Dylan sulkily returned the favor later that season. Letting Marns rub his thumbs over Dylan’s cheekbones, trying not to give in to the urge to roll his eyes.

He’s Mitch as he lowers himself onto Dylan’s cock the first time, hiccoughing breaths and heaving chest and pink rosy mouth open on a sigh. He’s “Dylan, _god_ , Dylan,” as he drags his hands up Mitch’s sides.

He’s “c’mon, babe, come for me,” with Mitch’s toes curled against Dylan’s sides, body bowed and straining for just that last push to get him over.

 

vii.

It’s still light out, mid-afternoon, and he’s rubbing sleep out of his eyes with Connor next to him in the bed, drool on the pillow he’s stolen from Dylan. It’s hard to get out of the habit of naps and they’ve mostly given up. He kicks at Connor’s shins, reaching over him to get his phone from the nightstand to try and capture the puddle of drool for snapchat.

“You love him, right?” Connor’s voice startles him when he’s flipping through filters.

“Uh.” He feels his chest sort of - seize up. He puts his phone down on the bed to what, try and hide the evidence?

“You’re sending a dumb snap of me sleeping to Mitch, aren’t you? And you’re smiling down at your phone like you do whenever you talk to him.” Connor yawns, finally wipes the drool clinging to his bottom lip away. Dylan debates rolling onto his side and facing Connor but decides slouching against the headboard manfully is the better option.

“Uhh.”

“You should probably tell him that. If you do, I mean.” He yawns again as he gets out of the bed, dragging all the blankets with him because he’s cruel.

“Huh.”

He retrieves his phone from the floor where it ended up after Connor took the sheets with him. Stares at the ten second video looping, Connor's lips pursing. Brow furrowing. Thinks about how much shit Mitch will give Connor about it, wide grin and bright eyes.

_love u_ he types across the black band, sliding it to the top of the screen.

 

viii.

He should have expected it to get a little weird in person, come World Juniors. And it does. Mitch’s “love ya” nearly every night over text or facetime doesn’t translate well into the chaos World Juniors.

They get no time alone and despite being around each other constantly there’s nowhere for them to go, to whisper sweet nothings or whatever Dylan keeps thinking about when he stares out frosted windows on buses. He’s not sure how well Mitch will take it if he starts like - cooing at him.

So really there’s no way for him to prepare for the way it feels to wrap his arms around Mitch, clutching at the cold fabric of his jacket after their win against Denmark.

“Fuck, Snipe!” He says for the millionth time as they get into the hotel elevator on the way to Mitch’s room. Somehow, Dylan doesn’t really want to know, Mitch got Barzal to leave for a few hours. They’ll need it if he’s going to reward Mitch and himself for their goals, and Dylan reminds himself he also got an assist. “Good fucking game. Except for that interference call, hmm?”

“Stop yelling, I’m right here.” Mitch complains, but isn’t paying attention to him, probably leaving stupid comments on instagram. He feels jittery, like his bones are trying to climb out of his skin. Which is a horrifying thought that he distracts himself from by bumping his shoulder into Mitch’s. It gets him an eye roll but Mitch pockets his phone. “Dude you need to chill, just.”

He looks around the elevator before planting a hand in the middle of Dylan’s chest and pushing. “Shut up so I don’t kick you out of the room before I get to fuck you. You’re lucky I love you.” He sniffs dismissively, grinning.

“You shut up,” Dylan mumbles. “Love you, too.”


End file.
